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As the spirit escaped with a mighty power
From the mortal cord that bound her.
For, the delicate clay lay pale and chill,
Its painful conflict over ;
And know I AM JEHOVAH !
“The bars of the grave through time must be
This sacred dust's protection; But they who trust, shall find in me
The life and the resurrection!"
THERE's blood on the laurel that wreathes his brow,
And the death-cry delights his ear! The widow is wailing his victory, now,
And his meed is the orphan's tear !
But the might of his arm shall lose its dread,
For a mightier foe comes near;
To nod o'er the conqueror's bier!
For there is no army to save!
And his honors shall hide in the grave !
He must measure the darksome valley alone,
Assail'd by remorse and fear;
Nor is there a comforter near.
He sinks! and none shall his requiem sound,
Nor sprinkle his turf with tears ;
And a shroud is the buckler he wears.
His terrible spirit has spurn'd its clay,
As a rampart, too weak and thin,
And shivering, and naked hath past away
From the house where it dwelt to sin,
But who shall follow the fugitive home
When his last great battle is o'er;
Of the soul on an untried shore !
“TAKE heed! take heed !
They will go with speed; For I've
new-strung ny bow. My quiver is full; and if oft I pull, Some arrow may hit, you know,
You know, you know,
“Oh! pull away,"
Did the maiden say,
Are blind, are blind,
His bow he drew;
And the shafts they flew
I die, I die,
He said, and smiled,
“I am but a child,
I'm blind, I 'm blind,
But pray, be calm,
That's brought by an older hand,
The band, the band,
Now, I must not stay
I must haste away-
To fly, to fly,
TO THE AUTOMATON CHESS PLAYER.
Thou wond'rous cause of speculation-
While ali in vain
Consists thy brain!
When first I view'd thine awful face,
Thy double shoe,
The distant two!
A sudden shuddering seized my frame;
The tout ensemble.
Which made me tremble.
I thought if, e'en within thy glove,
Far worse than death ;-
Devoid of breath.
When busy, curious, learn'd, and wise,
On thy stiff neck,
Thou giv'st them “check !”
Some say a little man resides
Absurd the notion !
And outward motion ?
Some whisper that thou ’rt him who fell
And lurid flame.
Close at thy gaine.
Now, though all Europe has confest
Yet, 't were great pity,
Our keen-eyed city.
Then just confide in me, and show,
None else shall know it.
I'll quickly blow it !
H. W. LONGFELLOW
Is a native of the State of Maine, and one of the Professors in Bowdoin College. He is now in Europe.
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS, AT THE CONSECRATION OF
Tho standard of Count Pulaski, the noble Pole who fell in the attack upon Savannah, during the American Revolution, was of crimson silk, embroidered by the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem, in Pennsylvania.
When the dying flame of day
Had been consecrated there.
it Proudly o’er the good and brave, When the battle's distant wail Breaks the sabbath of our vale, When the clarion's music thrills To the hearts of these lone hills,When the spear in conflict shakes, And the strong lance shivering breaks.